


Classmates

by VasaliaTheWise



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, College, Concerts, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Engineering, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Projects, Rock and Roll, Stress, Swearing, TW: sexual harassment, University, but it gets resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VasaliaTheWise/pseuds/VasaliaTheWise
Summary: You're one of the few women in your engineering program at college. You try so hard to keep up with your classes and grades. And that one kid, John Deacon, gets by easily and you can't stand him. Can you bear working on a project with him?
Relationships: John Deacon/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Two Years of BoRhap 2020 Exchange





	Classmates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johndeaconshands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johndeaconshands/gifts).



He got high marks after not studying. Again. And your test came back marked average.  
It took you blood, sweat, and tears to get into this engineering program. Deacon must have slept through it. Or he would have. And they still would have said yes to him. You felt the paper bend in your hands from silent rage.  
Deacon. Deacon. John who always slept in large lecture classes as you fought the urge to shut your eyes for even ten seconds. Who had hair so long he looked more like a fairy tale princess than you did. Who dressed like a bland accountant. And still got perfect marks.  
Looking around the yellow, dimly lit classroom, you saw a sea of glasses, rolled-up sleeves, and ink stains on the desks. You were among the few girls that sat in their seats, staring at their hands and the papers in them. Male heads turned to smell any perfume like hungry dogs. Anytime you raised your hand, they stared as well. It felt like you were always being watched. But Deacon. Deacon might as well be invisible. And at peace. Although there was no line to use the toilet, you still felt them. Watching you. Everywhere.  
Deacon was never at the library or coffee shop or anywhere looking at books until the wee hours of the morning. Not like you were for this test. And you got average and he aced it.  
Students lined up everywhere, bleary-eyed. John did not even blink it away. The old professor began to write theories on the chalkboard. You indulged in your envy and leaned over to Deacon. Of course, your desk had to be right next to his.  
“What is it…which Disco was it this time? You could have used that time to read the textbook…” you scoffed.   
John looked back at you. His brown eyes looked as if they would not hesitate to turn you into ice.  
“For your information, I was not at any disco last night…” he spat back under his breath.  
You took a sip of your coffee as the lecture began. You observed everything, doing your best to write the very letter of what the professor said down onto your lined notebook. You even added little stickers to details. Anything that would keep you up. Many of your male colleagues slouched lazily into their chairs. John even began to suck on his fingers lightly in slight boredom.  
Ugh, what a baby! you thought.  
Walking outside of the building, contemplating what sandwich to have for lunch, you noticed a group of your classmates hanging outside. They were dressed in jackets preparing for the chill of a London Autumn and held heavy green textbooks. They waved at you, wanting to join them. But you shook your head. You had to review your notes. That was what your lunch breaks were for. Just some reviewing.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Alright, so your project will be due at the end of the semester…” your professor announced.   
Wiping off a few crumbs from the bright red sweater vest he wore, he gave the displeased, hungover group of students a shrug. It struggled to keep up with his growing potbelly, but he gave a sadistic smile as he announced the rules to his groaning class.  
“No fussing, this might all be new for some of you. But this is the real world. You have projects. Just like you will when you become engineers. You have assignments. Just like real engineers do. And you will get them done or face consequences and not just for yourselves. But for lots of other people. So I have decided to make it a group project. I’ve already assigned everyone. You will each have one partner….”  
There was a brief shuffling. You heard a few student’s coughs.   
One boy raised his hand and asked, “why can’t we pick our own partner?”  
“Well, I don’t want anyone to be left behind. That’s happened quite a bit in the past. And you need to learn to get along with other people no matter what. I’m a professor, not a popularity judge Matthew.”  
You felt yourself smile. Professor Jones did have a kind streak. And this was the class where you were the only girl. You wouldn’t be abandoned. Or bickered over by creeps who wanted to try a shot to get into your panties. Pulling out your calendar from your backpack, you wrote down the due date, ready to copy down the name of your partner.  
He pulled out a clipboard. He began to roll off names, finally getting to…  
“John Deacon….Y/F/N Y/L/N…. you will be partners,” Professor Jones announced.  
Feeling a curse at the tip of your tongue, you both whipped your heads towards each other. His nostrils flared and your jaw clenched.  
The next hour in class was devoted to project planning. It was a warm afternoon and the sunshine fell onto John’s hair. It brought out the reddish tint in it, but you forced your head down.   
Who cared if you liked the color of his hair? He was still a lazy, sarcastic asshole. You had more important matters. You were laying out the schedule to meet outside of the class to work, written in red pen.  
“Mondays and Wednesdays are good…but not this Wednesday…” he said.  
“Why?” you asked, crossing out the upcoming Wednesday, eyes still down.  
He took in a deep breath.  
“Well…uh…I have a gig…” he confessed with timidity.  
“A gig? You’re a musician?” you replied loudly.   
Heads turned. John looked flushed and his brows crossed.  
“I’m a bassist, for your information.”  
“Ha! The one instrument no one can hear.”  
“McCartney’s a bassist. But…I have to be there, Y/N.”  
“So what?” you teased, sticking your pen behind your ear.  
“So-so what? It’s very important!” He fussed.  
“What could be more important than passing this project for our final? Do you wanna repeat the class?” you asked.  
“Well, Y/N, there are a few more things more important than passing this class. There’s breathing,” he fired back. His long, white hands crumpled into fists on his desk.  
“It’s just a band.” You shrugged.  
“They’re…they’re my friends…”  
“They’ll understand. If they really are your friends.” You argued.  
“Y/N, no you don’t!”  
“How hard can the music be?”  
“Y/N, we’re not a big band. Not a whole lot. The others are more experienced but…you might just have to see it.”  
You snapped your calendar shut and looked up at him with surprise. You heard people shuffling and chatting about non-project related plans in the back.  
“Is this an invite?”  
He shrugged, huffing in frustration.   
“I guess it is…”  
Pulling your calendar to your chest, you felt it boil out. Words flew from your mouth before you could think of them.  
“Oh, so you want to prove that you’re a better student and a musician too? You’re a bloody Da Vinci…” you fussed, fighting the urge to not cry.  
He froze. A few heads looked at you and then back to their work. John leaned closer. But his mouth, normally frowned and ready to spew venom, was a softer frown. He even said quietly.  
“Y/N, I never said I was a better student….I never said you were a bad student. Much less a bad engineer…why would you think I think that?” he reasoned.  
You paused. This was all too ridiculous. You felt your cheeks get warm with embarrassment. A stutter of a comeback or counterargument came up from the depths of your belly to say something back but it choked in your throat and an “uh” came out of your mouth. Especially in the middle of class. You wanted to throw yourself on the floor and scream like a toddler. But you held it in.  
He was right. Goddammit, he was right. And it made you mad.  
“Fine, let’s meet soon as we can and get this project started…” you managed to say.   
Once you got to your private room, you set aside your textbooks. You sobbed and sobbed into your pillow until your tears left dark stains. You hugged it to your chest, letting yourself procrastinate by listening to the ticking of your watch instead of doing a mountain of homework.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
After that first day of working outside of class, as you got sips of hot tea and wrote outlines you made a silent promise to yourself. You would not stretch yourself thin. Not when it was his responsibility.  
Which explained why you were waiting right before the door to backstage with a cup of punch in your hand. An hour before a show with his stupid band, whatever it was called.  
When the door opened, a tall, skinny man with curly brown hair opened the door. He looked even more like a fairy tale creature than a real person and you fought the urge not to gawk at him. He had white nail polish on the hand that kept the door open. You found yourself staring at it more than his face.  
“Uh, where’s John? John Deacon…. I need his help with homework. I’m a classmate…” you insisted.  
“Oh, he’s over there…” the man answered with a quiet voice.   
With a flurry of voices amid the musical cacophony of warming up, you saw someone hurry over. He was dressed in a dramatic black shirt with long sleeves. His lips were shiny with gloss and he had winged eyeliner. You hardly recognized him at first.  
“Hello, Y/N…” he greeted shyly. He seemed to turn as red as the garish blush on his cheeks.  
“Hi there, Bowie…” you quipped back.  
“Well, why are you here?”  
“Well, I….”   
You shuffled your feet, taking a big gulp of the cherry punch.  
“First off, John, I’m sorry I was a huge asshole to you that day. And I never apologized to you about that. Not even when we were working Monday. I hope you can forgive me”  
You looked up for a triumphant smile. But you saw his face was blank. Your nostrils curled at the smell of beer from backstage  
“Or…forgive me in time. And secondly…for the project, there was some info on this bit I needed that was your part to research…” you explained.  
There was a yelp backstage and his auburn head swirled to see what was happening. There was a falsetto cry that almost hurt your eardrums. You smelt cigarettes and heard the gargling and spitting of saltwater as well as someone vocalizing.  
“Here, let me hold your cup, you’ll need to write it down…” John offered.   
You gave him the punch and saw that he barely sniffed it but didn’t take a sip.   
He might be a dickhead, but at least he’s sanitary, you thought.  
You pulled out your red leather notebook and the pen you kept in your purse. He leaned over and quickly whispered the information. Nodding, you wrote it down quickly as you could, repeating the information like it was a crucial secret and not engineering information.  
You then placed your pen back, put your journal under your arm, and accepted the cup back.   
A high voice from the corner of the dressing room whined “We’re about to get started, Deaky! For fuck’s sake!”  
“Coming Rog!” he called back, giving you a small look-plain, unreadable- before closing the door.  
You sighed with relief at the journal. Smiling with satisfaction at the notes you had written down, all of your needed questions for your side of the project answered.  
Though, you came all this way. Used money from your own pocket to buy a ticket. Wheedled and pleaded your way backstage. Normally at this hour, you would be pouring over flashcards in your dorm. Maybe it was time for something different. Even if it did involve watching Deacon onstage.  
Walking past roadies in jeans you made your way to the audience and got on the seat you bought. And waited.  
As the band walked out, there was enthusiastic applause. The frontman gave a generous bow with a wave.  
“Good evening darlings!” he called out with a flourishing wave, he posed as if always ready for a photographer. His eyes glowed like that of a cat, especially with the heavy eyeliner he wore.  
With a toss of his shiny black hair, the band struck the first chord from its red guitar you felt as if you were grabbed by the gut.  
It was different. So different from most rock. There were fairy tale ballads. Slow, sadder pieces. Every type of music you could name was played. One song just about being okay made you teary eyed. Forgetting to applaud.  
No…no…please don’t. Don’t cry, stupid. You aren’t here to be emotional. You aren’t here to be a woman, dammit. Don’t cry…not out here where people from school can see you…you thought, dabbing your eyes with your jacket sleeve.  
Then another piece that made you tap your feet in rhythm. The lyrics pleaded for survival. The drum solo was mesmerizing, how fast and rhythmic- you didn’t breathe and felt yourself gulp when it was over- and the blonde headed drummer was drenched in sweat. It seemed as if every bit of his body and mind were given to perform that solo alone.  
But beneath, you noticed the bass line. The complexity. The flavor it added. The feeling of rhythm and movement it gave to every piece. Usually, you struggled to make out the bass on records. But when John played it, you could make out every note  
He was dancing lightly. Deacon-dancing! His hair and skin catching the light in a way that made him seem angelic far more than the harsh, glaring lights of class. He had a solo in another piece, “Liar” and a solo that caught you and pulled you in by the gut. You could feel a collective lust in the room from all the women ogling his fingers at work so tenderly against his instrument.  
He even went to the frontman, whatever his name was, and you heard Deacon sing. Lightly, yet clearly. Passionate despite himself. Embarrassed, but present and joyful.   
Once it was over, you clapped so hard your hands hurt. The lead singer ran back with a bouquet of red roses that he threw out to the audience. Those who caught it looked as if they were given the Holy Grail and held it tight to their sternums, clutching with all the strength in their hands.  
You were humming liar as you were getting into your pajamas. Then you stopped before you turned out the light- all you could think of was Deacon’s dancing, his singing, his playing-everything.  
It was gonna be hard to face him in the next class.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
But you did face him for the next two weeks. As usual. Not talking to him to even ask about the weather. Only the important stuff.  
You tried not to notice the lilt of his voice or his laugh or the way he smiled. In fact, most of the time, even when you made plans to meet to work that set your heart aflutter, you kept your eyes glued to your notebook.  
It was a boring day in class. You wanted badly to sleep and instead rested your chin on your fist as Professor Jones continued to drone on.  
“Alright, now let’s all work on that quiz-it’s not too much, so don’t panic. Not yet.”  
As class dragged on, they were so glued, that you hardly noticed another set of eyes.   
People went around to do their own reading and write out answers on a sheet the professor handed around. You were grateful. Time alone to focus and no one you had to talk to.   
Your no.2 pencil dropped to the ground, rolling with a small “krrrrr” sound. Bending your knees, you reached down to pick it up.   
“Hey, pssst…” someone voiced just past your ear.  
Glancing up, you saw a boy with skin the color of souring milk and hair like it was on fire. Before you could say anything, you caught what he was doing.   
He gathered his buddies near him and pulsed his hips forward towards you as if you were bending behind him. They began to giggle, with fists to their mouths as if to suppress it. But the lasciviousness of their smiles was undeniable.  
You froze. Processing it. Realizing this was real. You didn’t want to cause a fuss. You worked so hard to be here and it would take very little to lose your position. Even fighting back against these boys could do it. But before you could respond, tears welling up, there was a flurry and you heard a nasal, bright accent speak up from beside you.  
“No wonder you’re a dog, that’s the only way of doing it you can think about,” John said.   
He shot up from his chair and stood in front of you, his hands on the red-haired boy's chest.  
“What, what’s the problem, Deaks?”  
“You. You’re the problem. And I’m taking care of it. Right now,” he answered with a fury in his voice.  
He raised his hand and the professor looked up.  
“Professor Jones…”  
The other boys began arguing. Circling around him, they began to push John around. You walked forward, pulling them apart, saying to cut it out as the professor rushed towards you. Heads turned in the large lecture hall in curiosity about the sudden outburst.  
Professor Jones looked in astonishment at the situation. One foot in front of the other, ready to run.  
“Wha..what is it?” he asked.  
You stepped forward to be in front of the professor. Then explained softly, so the class would not overhear it like an announcement. No matter what, at least you had to say something. Especially before John was hurt.  
“Professor Jones…this boy, Matthew I think-he made a sex joke about me when I was bending down….”   
Quickly, he pulled you and Matthew out to the hall before there could be a commotion.   
“I did not!” Matthew protested, folding his arms.  
“Well, he denies it…” Jones mumbled, stroking his beard.  
Your stomach churned. You thought you would kiss any hope of getting an engineering degree or living without fear of not being bothered or worse goodbye. Then you noticed there was a creak in the door. John walked out, looking at the professor boldly in the eye.  
“It happened; I saw it. Y/N was just getting her pencil and he pretended like he was…was humping her…” John said, stepping forward.  
“Really?” he said.  
The door was left open. In crept two other boys.  
Another student walked forward, “Professor…I saw it happen too…so did John” “So did I…”  
Matthew was asked to stay after class, and you were placed on the other side of the room far from him to finish your quiz and then be dismissed early. You wanted to keep looking at your paper, focusing on the right answers. You found yourself staring off into the plain cream walls of the hall. Into nothing. Your pencil was in your hand, but it was shaking.  
A familiar Auburn head submitted his quiz at the desk in the center of the lecture room and walked over to you, the floors and steps creaking under his feet.  
“Y/N…are you alright?” John asked.   
He put his hands in the pocket of his jacket and his eyes softened. The fury he directed at the boy had cooled.  
“Yes I—I’m alright.” You whispered.  
With a flourish quoting that lead singer, you completed the quiz by circling the large C at the last question. Hurriedly, you placed the paper at the desk and walked back to John.  
“I never said it but…thank you for coming to the gig. We’re struggling. So, it means a lot.” John added, walking by your side out of the doors.  
“I should be the one thanking you.” You replied, huffing from the weight of your blue bag over your shoulder.  
“It was the decent thing to do. I’m terrified most of the time…but, I had to do something this time.”  
“I’m glad you did…” you blurted.  
After a while, you sat together in the coffee shop. Relaxing jazz and acoustic guitars played from the records. You were nursing your warm drink as a boon after this incident. Treated by John. When you saw him, Matthew, walk right out of the Engineering building across the street. He caught you from the window and walked right inside, almost hurting the bell over the door.  
From the look on his face, things had gone well on your side. You grinned in triumph but his face was as red as his hair.  
“Well, looks like I’m in a different class, you frigid bitch,” he cursed.  
“Then you shouldn’t have been a fucking pervert,” you snapped, taking a sip and carefully setting you drink down calmly as you could muster.  
John gripped the table with his long fingers.   
“Well, welcome to the man’s field. You should be honored when they get horny around you,” Matthew retorted.  
You no longer cared about what scene would be caused. You wouldn’t tolerate this anymore.  
You spat into his face. He shrieked and grabbed his face, your saliva colored with your drink. In the back, John let out a brief laugh and then held his mouth in surprise. Some people gasped and stared. A few employees even stood in the corner, ready to pull back anyone.  
“If you ever point your dick in my direction again it will be the last time you ever have a dick, got it?” you snapped violently.  
Without a word, he gritted his teeth and ran off. You returned to your place.  
“You’re my bloody hero, Y/N…” John commented opening the textbook. “Now…about the Psychics part of our data…”  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Hmmm, it’s very nice. Very nice.” Professor Jones commented, rubbing his greying beard in focus.  
You and John sat in his stuffy office, sweating. The wooden chairs forced your backs up straight and were as hard as rocks.   
This was the moment you both anticipated for a month. Long hours resulting in long nights at the library. Researching. Trying. Anything. Everything. Coffee cups emptily tossed into bins and the wrappers of snacks strewn across. Waiting for the sweet release of sleep once you found an answer and the elation when you discovered it. And now it was over. The air was getting from cool to cold. The leaves had fallen off and Christmas lights and trees were hinting at the arrival of a break that got you through every caffeine-fueled, sleep-deprived minute of finals and this project. Your hands hurt from how long you had been writing and typing. You had each word engraved into them, tattooed deeply like veins into your skin. And now Professor Jones was reading through them as if they were children’s stories.  
He looked up.  
“It’s a very strong project. The two of you work well together.”  
You glanced at each other and then turned away.  
“I think you both did very, bloody well. And I don’t blow steam. So…” he mused. He grabbed a red pen and wrote something in the top corner of the first paper.  
“So…” you voiced.  
“Top marks. You both gave your all. And it showed. Congratulations. Have a happy break.” He wished with a warm grin.  
You nodded. John’s jaw dropped and his shoulders dropped in relief. You both let out a breath that was almost half a laugh of released tension.  
“You too, Professor Jones, thank you…” John wished.  
Both of you walked out of his office and headed a bit down the hall to the empty wing where you talked in. Just enough to where it wouldn’t echo.   
You let out that nervous laugh and so did he. He held his belly and laughed with relief. There was a brief gap in his front teeth, but it made him seem even happier. Charming, even, you mused.  
“We…we did it!” you breathed with relief.  
“Oh my god…we did it…” John sighed.  
Both of you walked out to face the busy London streets. He paused a little bit.  
“I have to go to my flat. I’ve got more things to study…’ you shrugged. You wrapped your scarf closer around your neck for warmth.  
“But Y/N…I will kind of miss it…”  
“As will I…”  
There was a pause.  
“We’re planning another album. It’ll be really good. All the fairy tale songs you like and that kind of stuff…” he added in, scratching the back of his neck  
In a hot second, you dropped your books and hugged him. Hardly. He hugged you back.  
“Can I have your number?” he asked.  
You dug into your blue bag, ripping a corner of your planner.  
“Y/N…please do…please call during the Holidays…” you pleaded, handing it over.  
“I…I will…” he answered. You noticed he kept looking down at his feet.  
Once you had his number etched onto your hand and your mind, all that bitterness you felt for John Deacon was forgotten. And something new was forming. But that was just for you and him to know until it was time to say something.  
And by the time he greeted you the next time, kissing your cheek as he hugged you, you were sure.


End file.
